


At Risk of Falling

by LoWritesThings



Series: Claudeleth Week July 2020 [4]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Claudeleth Week, F/M, Fluff, War Phase, reunion/pining, slowish burn, this fic is really too short to merit the term slow burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-30
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25612375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoWritesThings/pseuds/LoWritesThings
Summary: Byleth isn’t used to being in danger of losing control of her heart. It’s never really happened before. She’s been attracted to people, even acted on that attraction here and there. But to be truly at risk of falling? That’s new, and it strikes her now with all of its power.For Claudeleth Week Day 4: Reunion/Pining
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Series: Claudeleth Week July 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1838515
Comments: 26
Kudos: 165
Collections: Claudeleth Week 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm slow and extremely behind, and this ended up being a lot longer than I expected...but I hope you enjoy it!

She knows she’s in trouble the second this new, older Claude turns toward her at the top of the Goddess Tower. If the ruined shell of Garreg Mach hasn't convinced her that five years have truly passed, this new Claude does: he’s tall and broad, with magnificent golden regalia and even a new beard. The braid is gone and his face has matured, but his eyes...his eyes are the same. And the look he gives her in that first moment...it sends an electric jolt through her before it warms her all the way through.

Byleth isn’t used to being in danger of losing control of her heart. It’s never really happened before. She’s been attracted to people, even acted on that attraction here and there. But to be truly at risk of falling? That’s new, and it strikes her now with all of its power. She’s not sure what to do, other than step forward to greet him, so she decides to do nothing at all. It seems to be the safest course of action.

* * *

Only it isn’t safe. It grows even less so as the days pass. They rebuild Garreg Mach and make plans to shore up Alliance support before pressing on with the war effort, all while Byleth feels herself being drawn closer and closer to the edge of some precipice, one she can’t see the bottom of. Claude is everywhere: talking to the cooks about rations and supply lines, ensuring the morale of their friends and allies remains high, discussing the deployment of the Knights of Seiros with Seteth, or reading until the darkest hours of the night to ensure he has the best possible information to act on. And he so frequently needs her help. He’ll catch her in hallways or he’ll drop by her quarters just to ask for advice or probe her for her opinion on a proposed course of action. He’ll appear in time to walk with her to lunch in the dining hall or arrive in the courtyard with some tea just as she’s passing by.

Every moment they’re together, she can feel their bond deepening. She can sense his trust in her growing. He seems to need her, and she feeds off of that even as she knows it’s going to bring her pain in the end, when he makes some politically advantageous marriage or else disappears over the horizon he gazes at so fondly. But for now, they’re in step. They press forward side by side, and that’s enough. It has to be enough. These days must fill her heart for a lifetime. If she doesn’t survive the war, maybe they will.

* * *

The true scope of her danger is revealed to her during their battle at Ailell. She is pinned down by a group of hostile troops, and though this doesn’t concern her too much, she is slowly being backed onto a molten part of the valley floor. She cuts down the first two, trying to ignore the toll that the heat is taking on her body. Another enemy rushes in and lands a blow with his sword. He is dead a moment later but the heat and the blood loss are slowing her down. Her condition worsens when she takes a blast of magic to the chest that disorients her long enough for the superheated environment to do its work. She feels herself begin to falter and in the split second she has to react before losing consciousness, she begins concentrating on the magic that will allow her to turn back time. But just as the edges of her vision begin to distort, a wyvern pulls out of its dive right in front of her. Claude’s hand is already extended toward her.

“Teach!” he yells, and with a huge effort she gathers her remaining strength and lunges toward him. She catches his wrist and fingers clamp around her own in return. As soon as he’s got a good grip on her, he helps her swing up onto the wyvern’s back.

“Not exactly how I pictured our first wyvern ride,” he comments lightly as she links her arms around his waist. He fires at an archer beneath them as he speaks, his deadly aim making his levity all the more jarring. Before she can think of a reply—she’s never been as quick with a witty reply as he is—he winks at her over his shoulder and then scans the valley.

“Where do you want me to drop you? Were you on your way to Ashe?” he asks as she downs a healing concoction.

“That’s where I was headed, but—” They’d be especially vulnerable to an archer’s attack on the back of his wyvern, but Claude seems unconcerned. He nudges the animal with a knee and they’re soaring in that direction. He passes close enough to Marianne for the bishop to send a blessing of white magic Byleth’s way at his signal, and between the medicine and magic she begins to feel normal again. But that leaves her with only a moment to realize how tightly she’s pressed against his body and how she feels oddly protected up here, even in the midst of battle, before he’s dropping her back on the ground.

“Fight well, my friend,” he says as she slides off of the wyvern, careful to avoid its wing. He winks at her and takes off again, shooting an enemy off of her back even as the wyvern lurches off of the ground. She’s glad he took the myrmidon down; she’s dangerously distracted for a moment and makes for an easy target. But only for that single moment. Then a fireball whips past her head and she’s back in fight once more, lost in the fury of battle. Examining her heart will have to wait for a more opportune moment.

* * *

“Well Professor, it’s a good thing you’re not as destructible as you look,” Manuela says as she draws the sheets up over Byleth’s bandaged body. “I haven’t seen too many wounds delivered by devil weapons before, usually because they fester and the person dies.”

“My father used to say that we Einsers are too stubborn to die,” Byleth says. The memory of her father is a bittersweet sting, made sharper by the sympathetic glance Manuela casts in her direction.

“He must have been right. Still, even my reserves of white magic are tapped. I’m  _ exhausted. _ If Marianne and Mercedes hadn’t done such good work on the battlefield, you might not be here,” the older woman says.

“I know.” Byleth’s hand tightens on the bed as she remembers. She’d nearly had to use Sothis’ power again, but her former students had made a miracle happen. Still, the wound had continued to rot until they’d made it back to the monastery where Manuela could add medicine to magic. It saved her life.

Before she can say thank you, Claude bursts into the room. Manuela had insisted no one be allowed in, but the Alliance leader has apparently decided he’s been patient enough. His hair, usually disheveled just enough to be fashionable, is a tousled mess. He’s obviously been raking his hands through it. There’s still a slightly wild look in his eyes as he drinks in the sight of her stretched out on the bed. He’d saved her too, ordering his Immortal Corps to provide a protective escort for her speedy return to Garreg Mach. Byleth hadn’t liked leaving him without his battalion, but the fighting was largely over at that point and he’d insisted.

He comes toward her now, crossing the room in just a few long strides, and his eyes are locked onto hers. She’s so caught up in his emerald gaze that she jumps a little when he laces their fingers together as he settles into a chair at her bedside.

“How are you, my friend?” he asks, giving her hand a squeeze. She can feel the tension in him and smiles a little, hoping it will help him relax.

“She’s fine,” Manuela says as she washes her hands in a nearby basin. Claude ignores her and searches Byleth’s face for any sign of pain.

“I really am fine,” Byleth assures him. He nods and calms a little.

“Oh, it’s like  _ that _ , is it? I see. Well, I’ll be outside if you need anything,” Manuela tells them. Neither of them acknowledge her. Later, Byleth knows she’ll have to apologize if she wants any peace around the monastery, but for now all she can do is try to decipher the intense emotion in Claude’s eyes.

“You can’t scare me like that, my friend,” he says softly. He drops his eyes and tries to chuckle, but it sounds forced. “Seeing you fall like that…it was like living a nightmare.”

“It felt pretty nightmarish at the time,” Byleth admits. She touches her bandaged side with a wince. “Cursed blades are something I’d like to avoid moving forward.”

“Sounds like good advice for all of us, Teach,” Claude says with another chuckle. This one sounds more like a natural laugh, and she can feel her shoulders relaxing. His eyes flick back up to hers and the smile he gives her now is more genuine as well.

“How’s Ashe? Is he settling in okay?” she asks.

“He’ll be alright. I think he’s glad to be among friends again. Thank you for bringing him to our side, my friend. I don’t know what you said to him, but...I’m glad it worked.”

They stare at each other and his smile fades, replaced by an expression that’s much harder for her to read, but something about it makes her feel like she’s just been running and can’t quite catch her breath. He squeezes her hand again, his gloved fingers warm around hers. Then, all at once, he pulls away and sits back in his seat, and she can see that he’s become the Leader of the Alliance again. It’s like a mask he’s dropped over his face so that he becomes charming and nonchalant all at once, though there’s a slight hint of color in his cheeks. He straightens out his golden jacket and says, “Well you had better rest up, my friend. The war rages on, and we all rely on your strength.”

Whatever that breathless feeling had been, it fades now into something a little cold. It’s like she’s just left a warm room and walked out into a winter night. But she smooths her own features so that nothing of her thoughts can be seen on her face and she nods.

“Thank you for checking on me. I’ll report back as soon as Manuela gives me the all-clear.”

“I’m sure you will, but I mean it:  _ rest _ . The real kind of rest. We won’t win the war while you’re busy healing, I promise,” Claude says. He gives her the salute she remembers from his school days, touching two outstretched fingers to his forehead before flicking them smartly in her direction. “See you soon, Teach.”

And with a rustling of that fine golden clothing, he’s gone and she’s alone in the infirmary. Alone to wonder how she’s going to deal with these unfamiliar emotions that he keeps stirring up, leaving her confused in his wake.

Maybe Manuela has something to drink in here. That seems like the only way she’s going to forget her heart for a little while.

* * *

Byleth stands near her campfire and stares out at the Great Bridge of Myrddin, wondering how the Alliance lords will react to their victory. Acheron’s betrayal was expected, but will Gloucester continue to support them? They have the upper hand now, but will he hold their supply lines as they press further into Imperial territory? She isn’t sure, and that worries her. It must worry Claude a great deal more.

With a sigh, she turns to head into her tent, but before she can duck into it she spots Ignatz approaching. His smile is apologetic: it’s late and clearly he thinks she’d been on her way to bed just now.

“Professor, I hope you don’t mind but Claude was asking for you,” he says. “He’s in the command tent.”

If he hasn’t come to find her himself, it must mean that he’s still working. And it also means that Gloucester is still in their army’s camp, no doubt making demands in return for securing their supply lines. She considers stopping to pick up Lorenz on her way to the tent, then realizes he’s probably already there with his father.

“Teach,” Claude says as she ducks under the open flap. The interior is surprisingly well appointed: there’s a long table and chairs for meeting with their generals, a map table and many brightly patterned carpets. Toward the back of the tent, behind a partition, is a dining area and what appears to be a miniature library, stuffed with books and more maps from what she can tell. She wonders if Claude sleeps in this tent, but one look at his face answers that question. No, if the bags under his eyes are any indication, he doesn’t sleep here. He doesn’t sleep much at all.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he continues as she approaches the map table, where he, Count Gloucester, Lorenz and some other minor nobles are gathered. “We were discussing supply routes and I could use your opinion.”

He gives her a wan smile and she can hear the words he doesn’t say:  _ I could use a rescue. _ She nods and allows him to draw her closer to the map they’ve all been examining. She sees Count Gloucester’s eyes flick between the pair of them and wonders what he sees. From the sour look on his face, he doesn’t like his observations. Behind him, Lorenz shifts uncomfortably and taps the map.

“As I was saying, Father: it really shouldn’t be an issue to hold the supply lines from Riegan territory to the Great Bridge. Our lands are peaceful and our family commands plenty of troops to—”

Count Gloucester shakes his head. His expression is as immovable as granite. “Such a blatant show of favor for House Riegan—”

“—Is your duty as a vassal House, correct?” Byleth stares at the older man. “I’m not a noble so I might be confused, but I was under the impression that your House had sworn fealty to Claude’s.”

“That may be technically correct, but the reality is that Emperor Edelgard is right on our doorstep and we’d be courting disaster if we don’t maintain neutrality,” the Count replies, his face coloring. Byleth can’t tell if he’s angry or embarrassed. Perhaps he’s both, but his cooperation is essential to their war effort so she tries to keep her tone calm and pacifying.

“Edelgard has a war on two fronts now,” she says, leaning around Claude to tap the map first at the Airimid River, then at the Kingdom capital. “We’ve consolidated our hold on the Great Bridge with a strong garrison of troops. Judith and Claude have hand picked them. Edelgard would have to make a considerable effort to take the bridge back, and at the moment her army is split and I don’t think she has the resources. If we can defeat her at Gronder, the border is clear and our path into the Empire is wide open.”

“And once we have control of Fort Merceus, any access to your territory will be well guarded by my armies,” Claude adds, taking Byleth’s hand and moving it along the map from their position here along the river to the depiction of the fortress. A shock runs through her at the unexpected contact, but she controls her expression; she doesn’t like the way the Count has been watching them.

He’s sneering slightly now, though Claude is already pulling his hand away.

“You’re young and a commoner, so I imagine this game is new for you, but let me clue you in on something, sweetheart,” he says to Byleth, and she can hear Lorenz give a sharp intake of breath at the blatant disrespect. Around them, the other nobles shift uncomfortably. The Count ignores them and continues, his voice laced with contempt, “The Duke is handsome and, at least so far, victorious. They say you should take most of the credit for that, but I’ve yet to see you do anything more than parrot his clever words. Perhaps he’s made you promises, or perhaps you’re simply too in love with him to see sense, but Emperor Edelgard will crush anyone that stands in her path. And Gloucester territory is now on her front lines.”

“Gloucester territory has always been on her front lines. Now it’s on ours,” Byleth replies in a low, dangerous voice. “And I’m not your sweetheart, I’m the acting archbishop.”

“For what it’s worth, she’s not my sweetheart either,” Claude adds lightly, although she can see the fury in his eyes. His support warms her, though she feels her cheeks start to flush when he adds, “More’s the pity. Any man would be beyond lucky. That is something we can agree on at least, eh Your Excellency?”

Then he glances around the map table at the other nobles. “Does anyone else think I’m seducing the Archbishop in order to leverage the Church’s support?”

They’re quick to shake their heads, perhaps hearing the hint of warning in Claude’s otherwise jovial tone. He nods, satisfied. “Good, then that’s the last I expect to hear of it. Count Gloucester, if you don’t protect our supply lines, it won’t be Edelgard’s army you’ll have to worry about. You’re dismissed.” His eyes are cold as he watches the Count bow to him with a polite but grudging murmur of, “Your Grace.”

He wraps up the meeting with the rest of the group while Byleth fiddles with their troop placement on the map, trying to keep her idle hands busy so that her mind doesn’t dwell on just how transparent her feelings for Claude must be if Gloucester thought to use them against her. She can hear him and Lorenz speaking quietly about the best way to smooth any ruffled feathers. Then Lorenz bids Claude goodnight, and they’re alone.

“You’re pretty fearsome off the battlefield too, my friend. Count Gloucester was trembling in his boots,” Claude comments as he rejoins her at the map table. His eyes trace the mountain range that splits the Alliance and Kingdom territories, but she can tell his mind isn’t on the geography of Fódlan.

“I don’t know how true that is,” Byleth replies. “He wasn’t too scared to throw scandal in our faces.”

Claude waves a dismissive hand. “Camp gossip he happened to overhear. It was the only weapon in his arsenal, but the other nobles didn’t back him. Besides, Count Gloucester’s always made a great show of his piety. He has to fall in line with you, and so do all the other Goddess-fearing nobles in Leicester.”

“I suppose I could excommunicate him if he double crosses us,” she muses, only half joking. He gives a quiet bark of laughter.

“I’d like to see the look on his face,” he replies with a mischievous smile. She finds herself returning it, though it must be somewhat blasphemous to joke about excommunication. Still, she thinks Sothis herself might have approved.

“My friend,” Claude says, cutting into her thoughts, “I know you don’t want to be Archbishop, just like I know I’m capitalizing on your position as head of the Church of Seiros. I hate to use your discomfort for my gain, but—”

She holds up a hand to stop his words. “You have to. This has to be a righteous cause, doesn’t it? Linking the war effort to the Church makes sense. It will ensure the aid of the more pious lords, so I’ll play along as long as you need me to.”

His relief is palpable, but there’s something very careful about the way he asks, “And after? When I don’t need you to play along anymore?”

“I’m no spiritual leader, Claude. I’ve never even read the scriptures. And I don’t want the power. I think Seteth could be a good successor...if we can convince him that Rhea’s conspiracies only hurt the Church, they didn’t protect it.”

Claude’s hand closes around hers, surprising her. “They didn’t just hurt the Church. She wanted something from you and your wellbeing didn’t matter to her so long as she got it.”

The normally-latent fury in his tone when he speaks of Rhea is so sharply present in this moment that she jerks her head up to read his expression. His jaw is tight and his eyes are far away but sensing her attention, he looks down at her.

“How much do you know?” she asks.

“Not enough,” he replies. “But I pieced together a few theories from her comments and your father’s diary. And then there was that shambles of a ceremony in the crypt. We were all too busy fighting Edelgard to talk about it, but I think it hit me once I was safely back in Derdriu that whatever Rhea wanted that day, you were merely the key that would open the lock. If you broke in the meantime, you were a sacrifice she was willing to make.”

There’s a beat of silence between them as Claude’s expression morphs from fury into self-consciousness and discomfort. Before she can comment, he says, “I’m using you too, I know. But believe me, your wellbeing is always on my mind. We’re all risking our lives every time we fight, but if you were to tell me you were done...I’d let you walk away, even if it cost me all of my dreams.”

Byleth looks down at the ground, keenly aware that he was still holding her hand. “I know,” she replies. And she also knows that he’s right: Rhea would never have let her walk away.

Claude’s throat works, like he’s going to say something else. She can feel his anxiousness about it, it rolls off of him in waves that are nearly palpable. But he controls himself and gestures upward, over the tents and to the sky. Stars are scattered there and the sparks from the campfires dance with them, an unexpected bit of beauty in the grim reality of an army camp.

“Dawn is coming, Byleth. A dawn we can be proud of. We’re bringing it together, but the hardest parts are still ahead.” He slants a glance her way. “Tell me if I ask too much of you.”

The honest concern in his gaze and his rare use of her given name make her shake her head. Nothing would be too much. She knows that with a clarity that leaves her feeling exhiliarated...and deeply lonely. But all she says is, “I will.”

He nods and releases her hand, but he walks with her through the camp until they reach her tent, and bids her goodnight with a smile that’s...well, intimate is the best word she can come up with. This feels like a side of him only she gets to see sometimes. Perhaps that’s part of his charm, perhaps he makes everyone feel like there’s something about him that only they get to experience. Perhaps she’s a fool for thinking she might be special, but she holds onto the thought anyway, deep inside where no one else will ever find out.

“Goodnight, my friend,” he says when they reach her tent. “And thank you.”

She isn’t sure what he’s thanking her for, but she doesn’t ask for clarification. Instead, she feels a small smile curve her lips, one that grows as she sees how his eyes soften at the sight of it.

“Goodnight, Claude,” she replies, and ducks into her tent.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I'm going for the trifecta...I don't know how this got so long. I upped the chapter count! That said, three is definitely going to be the magic number. Hoping to have this done by the weekend!
> 
> Thank you for your time!

Gronder is hell.

Imperial mages drop fireballs onto their vanguard, burning infantry men where they stand in their lines. Claude hisses through his teeth, his jaw tight with fury even as some of the color drains from his face at the sight of Alliance troops dying before they’ve even begun to engage. Byleth too feels a pang, but things will only get worse before this is all over.

Worse and worse.

She remembers most of it in flashes later: beginning the assault on the central hill, Claude and his Immortal Corps trying to provide cover from the air. They keep having to fall back as Bernadetta fires a ballista at them with deadly accuracy. Byleth’s sword cuts her down and for years afterward she’ll dream of Bernie’s face, white with fear and blood. The next few minutes are seared into her memory forever.

She can’t seem to move away from the girl’s body, even as smoke begins to choke off her air supply. She can hear Claude’s frantic shout and it registers at last that the hill is burning. He’s racing toward her on his wyvern; he’s already spotted that there’s no other way off of the hill. The flames are too hot and too high for Byleth to make her way down on foot.

The wyvern hovers near the top of the hill, his powerful wings beating hard. Claude reaches down for her, his black cape fluttering in the thermal being created by the heat. He looks like a hero out of one of Ashe’s storybooks, except he’s covered in ash and sweat and he looks panicked for her. She grabs Bernadetta’s body and tries to haul her up into the saddle, but Claude shakes his head.

“He can’t take all three of us,” he says in a hollow voice.

“He has to!” Byleth is shouting without meaning to. Her throat is on fire; it feels like the inside will blister and bleed.

“Byleth!” Claude grabs at her arm. “We have to leave her. I’m sorry. She has to stay here or we’re all going to burn.”

He’s right, but even as she acknowledges that fact it still takes an effort for her to pull away from his grasp and release Bernadetta’s body. She lays her former student down with gentle hands, though the smoke is beginning to make her cough. Then Claude’s wyvern makes a distressed sound as the flames leap higher and she knows she’s out of time. Claude reaches for her again, and this time she clasps his forearm and climbs up onto his wyvern.

He’s trembling slightly as they fly away from the burning hill which is now Bernadetta’s funeral pyre.

“What is it?” she asks, her voice raw from smoke inhalation.

“I always liked Bernie. I felt for her,” he replies. “Her life was so unhappy. And now it’s over.” He glances back over his shoulder at the fire. “That was one of my tactics, do you remember?"

“Yes,” she replies, thinking back to the Battle of the Eagle and Lion. He had mentioned setting the field on fire then. The memory seems to haunt him now.

“Edelgard may hate the Church, but she learned one thing from it.” Claude’s hand fists hard around his bow. “She’s willing to sacrifice anything—and anyone—to achieve her goals.”

Byleth doesn’t answer for a moment. She has no idea what to say, but she doesn’t disagree. How many times had she heard the young woman say just that, before she’d seized power and started a war?

“She did warn us,” is all she can think of in response.

“I’m not like that,” Claude says. “I can use people, I can charm and manipulate them to get what I want and not bat an eye. We both know I can kill if I must. But I can’t just leave our allies out there like pawns, like  _ bait. _ Not without a backup plan.”

Byleth squeezes his waist gently. “I know that,” she assures him.

“But knowing what my limitations are...and knowing what lengths she’ll go to...I have to wonder if I can still win.”

“We’ll win.” Byleth thinks of Bernadetta. She thinks of her Deer. “We will. Together.”

“I hope you're right, my friend. I’ll have to put my faith in you. Do you mind?”

“No. I already put my faith in you.” She’s glad he can’t see her face, otherwise he’d be able to see her flushed cheeks. She knows her regard for him is probably obvious by now, but she feels ridiculously vulnerable when she blurts out her feelings like that. To distract them both, she points down to where Hilda is battling two Imperial cavalrymen.

“Drop me there. I’ll find you after,” she tells him.

Claude guides the wyvern to the ground and lets her down, sending an arrow at an approaching warrior to discourage him from getting close enough to attack. Byleth’s feet hit the field and she draws the Sword of the Creator.

“You and me, Teach—we’ll win, and we’ll save the ones we can,” Claude calls after her as she sprints to Hilda’s side.

_ And honor the ones we can’t,  _ she thinks just before she rejoins the fray.

* * *

Edelgard’s retreat from the field means the Alliance is victorious, but with Bernie and Prince Dimitri dead it doesn’t feel too much like winning. Claude stands at the edge of the camp, looking back toward the battlefield. Smoke still billows into the sky, and his gaze is locked onto it even as the sun sets and twilight gathers around them.

“Claude,” Byleth calls softly. She doesn’t want to startle him since he seems so lost in his thoughts. His brow tightens as the smoke becomes almost invisible in the purplish light of the dying day.

“Khalid,” he replies, sounding distracted as Byleth comes to a stop at his side and turns to face the battlefield as well. She frowns at this response, wondering if she should know who Khalid is. Then Claude turns toward her.

“My real name. It’s Khalid,” he tells her. She rocks back slightly, can feel that her eyes have gone a little wide, but if she thinks about it, it’s not really a surprise that he’s been using an alias.

“Khalid,” she repeats, testing it out. She knows enough to know it’s Almyran, but that’s not a surprise either. She’d put that together back in their Academy days.

“Claude is my name too. I wasn’t lying when I said it’s what my mother called me. But Khalid is the name I grew up with.” He watches her warily, waiting for her to react, but she only nods. Some of the tension drains out of his shoulders at her calm acceptance.

“Why are you telling me now?” she asks.

“Someone in this army should know my real name if the worst should happen,” he says with a half-smile. It doesn’t quite make it to his eyes. He’s thinking of Bernadetta and Dimitri, she guesses. Then he says, “I’ve got an idea about how to crack Fort Merceus wide open. But it will basically be telling everyone exactly what my heritage is.”

“And you’re nervous about it?”

He nods and sighs. “It seems like a silly thing to be nervous about, after today. Still, there’s a lot of bad blood between Almyra and the Alliance. I could lose the confidence of the nobles. They may strip me of power.”

“What can I do?” Byleth asks. He smiles at her, wry and affectionate.

“There’s nothing you can do. Either they accept me—and my heritage—or they don’t, we’ll know soon enough.” A beat passes as he continues to watch her, his gaze roaming over her face. His smile fades, but she thinks he’s still looking at her with fondness. “I wanted to tell you first, privately. I trust you and...I wanted you to know. I’ve wanted you to know for a while.”

“Claude. No, Khalid.” She smiles and tilts her head slightly. “I  _ have _ known for a while.”

“Ah...well,” he replies with a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck, “I guess I should have counted on you to put it together.”

She shifts a little closer, feeling her lungs tighten a fraction when he does the same. The quilted sleeve of his jacket is brushing against her arm now, and though there’s still a perfectly respectable distance between them, it feels almost unbearably intimate to her.

“I know you know that I’m grateful you picked me. Picked the Golden Deer, I mean,” he amends with a slight flush. “But after today...Byleth, I—”

He chokes off and she wonders what to do. This seems like a moment where she should comfort him somehow; to take his hand or say something meaningful. Maybe even to embrace him. But she isn’t sure which to pick and the moment passes her by.

“I told you I’d support you if your dreams were noble ones,” she says quietly. She sees him nod out of the corner of her eyes.

“How do you know they’re noble?” he asks.

“Because I know you,” she replies, like it’s as simple as that. For her, it  _ is _ as simple as that. He is her friend but also a capable, generous man with hopes for a better world, and she has no hesitation in helping him achieve his goals. She turns to him and puts a hand on his shoulder as he shifts to face her as well. “Get some rest, Khalid. It will be a busy day tomorrow.”

“You get some rest too, my friend.” His fingers ghost over her cheek, and her chest squeezes tight around her lungs until she realises she’s been cut there, right under her eye. “Rest and heal.”

She nods and his shoulders lift and then drop again with a long sigh. “I’m exhausted,” he admits. “I’ll see you in the morning?”

“You will,” she promises, and they break away with some reluctance to seek out their own tents. It takes her a long time to sleep, and when she wakes her hand is cupped over the spot on her cheek that his fingers had brushed across so gently.

* * *

Fort Merceus is a crater in the ground and the shock of its utter destruction works in Claude’s favor. His heritage is not the bombshell he expected it to be, mostly because people are too afraid that javelins of light are going to drop on their heads to care too much that Claude might have Almyran blood. There are grumbles about him and questions about Nader and his reinforcements, but it ends there. Besides, they need Claude’s guiding hand and calculating mind—even nobles like Gloucester can recognize that—so Duke Riegan leads on.

“Enbarr is next,” he tells the Deer. They’ve taken a room in a local inn and turned it into a command center. Claude’s normal scatter of books and maps clutter the area near the bed, but the desk has been dragged into the room and a map of the Imperial capital has been spread over it, with tactical markers to represent their troop movements.

“What can we expect?” Lysithea asks.

“Hubert holds the city on behalf of Edelgard. The buildings may hide black magic users and snipers. I’m not sure if the civilians have been evacuated, but if they haven’t been we’ll need to move toward the palace with extreme caution,” Byleth explains. “We need to take the city and fortify it with our own army before we move into the Imperial palace. If we don’t, we may end up being attacked from the inside and out.”

Lorenz steps forward and begins explaining how and where they should focus their assault. When Claude is satisfied that their battle plans are clear in everybody’s minds, he dismisses them to rest up before their march into the heart of the Empire.

Byleth lingers, ignoring the knowing look Hilda shoots at her as she passes. She hears Ignatz whisper a question to Leonie but doesn’t hear Leonie’s answer. Perhaps their speculation about her relationship with Claude should embarrass her, but a showdown with Edelgard is looming in her near future and she knows she doesn’t have much time left for petty worries.

“Have you slept?” she asks Claude when the room is empty. His eyes flick to her and his lips curve into a guilty little smile that makes her sigh and shake her head.

“Can  _ you _ sleep?” he counters. “If we succeed—”

“Fódlan is yours,” Byleth says, but he shakes his head at her.

“Surely it would be ours. I never would have made it this far on my own. Even with our magnificent Deer, I couldn’t have carried the war into the Empire itself, much less to the capital. I might have maintained Leicester’s borders...or Gloucester and Acheron could have found a way to present Edelgard my head on a platter.”

“You underestimate yourself,” she tells him.

“That’s not what Judith would say,” he shoots back with a laugh. “She still insists on calling me boy and is very careful to remind me that my successes all hinge on you.”

Judith had said something similar to her, Byleth remembers; something about how Claude had been waiting for her to really pursue his dreams.

“She’s only trying to keep you humble. But your feint to get us safely through Gloucester’s territory to the Great Bridge, and Nader’s surprise assault at Fort Merceus—those were all you. I can swing a sword or direct a few troops, but you see the bigger picture.” Byleth picks up one of the tactical markers, the one representing their magic corps, and plays with it so she doesn’t have to meet his all-too-penetrating gaze. “Your schemes and my power, isn’t that what you always say?”

He reaches over and plucks the wooden figure from her hand, forcing her to look up at him. He’s smiling at her in that fond way he does, the way that would probably do funny things to her heartbeat if she had one. “I don’t just say it, Byleth. It’s what I truly believe: that you and I can do anything as long as we’re in step with one another.”

“I’m glad you trust me at last.”

“More than you know.” He takes a breath, filling his chest and holding it for a moment before letting it out in a short huff. “I want you to come to Almyra with me. When this is over, I mean. There are things I want to show you in person, and...one last secret about my family you ought to know.”

Slightly overwhelmed by the idea that Claude was asking to take her home to  _ meet his parents, _ Byleth’s eyes drop to his cravat, snowy against the skin of his throat. “Can’t you just tell me?” she asks.

He laughs. “Where would be the fun in that, my friend?” He reaches out and tilts her chin up with gentle fingers. “Well, what do you say? Will you come?”

“Of course I’ll come,” she replies. It’s been a long time since she’s said no to him and she isn’t going to start today, apparently. But his smile—one that crinkles the corners of his eyes—warms her from the inside out.

“Now  _ that’s  _ something to fight for, my friend. I don’t have any choice but to survive what’s coming next, not if I want to give you a proper tour of my homeland.”

Her lips curl too, and there’s a heat in her cheeks and ears that means she’s probably blushing just a little bit. “You’d better survive or I’ll make Cyril do it, and neither one of us would have any fun.”

He covers his heart and pretends to stagger as if stuck by a blow. “That’s harsh, Teach...but probably all too true. Alright, it’s a promise then: we’re both going to survive this war and then travel to Almyra crowned in victory.”

“I promise,” she says. Somehow without realizing it, they’ve closed the gap between them. Their heads are bent toward one another, voices low and intimate. He isn’t holding her face anymore, but it feels like he’s surrounding her with his warmth, blocking out the world so that she can take this moment to just be a young woman and not some mythical war hero, locked behind her stoicism.

“Khalid—”

But before she has any idea how she’s going to finish that sentence, the door opens and Lysithea stumbles to a halt at the sight of them in such intimate proximity.

“Oh! I just came back to—I wanted to study the battle formation some more, but I can come back later,” she stutters, her pale eyes wide. Claude takes one smooth, unhurried step back from Byleth and waves a languid hand at the map table.

“No need, it’s all yours,” he tells the younger woman in a casual tone—one that’s a little too casual if his red ears are any indication. “I was just about to tuck in for the night. Teach, you should get some rest too. Lysithea, I’d order you to bed as well but I have a feeling you’d just ignore me.”

“You’re right, I would,” Lysithea agrees. She looks back and forth between them once more, then seems to decide it’s better to just drop it. “Goodnight, Claude. Goodnight, Professor.”

“Goodnight, Lysithea,” Byleth replies. She doesn’t exactly flee to her room upstairs, but it feels like a retreat anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like a visual reference for the first kiss...[this is what I was thinking of.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-OeupHTq63k) Still one of the hottest first kisses ever.

The next morning, Byleth emerges from the inn just as the camp begins to break up and pack. There’s a hint of dawn on the horizon, but the sun won’t be in the sky for a little while yet. She tries not to linger on the thought that for some of their fighters, the sun won’t rise ever again. Claude had written letters requesting a diplomatic end to this war rather than a bloody final battle. They had been carried by envoys under flags of truce: three separate attempts at winning peace through words. The last envoy had disappeared into the city two days ago. Hubert hasn’t done anything so plebeian as to send back the boy’s head in a box, but Byleth thinks he must be dead. A frontal assault on the city is the only real option they have left.

“A siege would be safer,” Claude had said when Lorenz suggested it, “but we can’t spare the troops to sustain our supply lines through hostile territory. We’ve already tapped out the Alliance nobles; they’ve got nothing left to give. Now that we’ve come so far, we’ve got to end this quickly.”

So now they’ll fight. She hopes this will be  _ the _ decisive battle, the one that secures peace for Fódlan and gives Claude the solid foundation he’ll need to start building his new world.

Hilda, Marianne and Ignatz all emerge from the inn and none of them look as though they’ve slept any better than she did. Raphael appears too, but he barely says good morning before he’s off in search of food. Leonie approaches from the direction of the very mess tent Raphael is seeking out, already fully geared up. Byleth thinks her horse is probably also racked up and ready for the final push to Enbarr.

“Leader Man wants us all to meet him in the common room,” the redhead says, gesturing to the inn. “Final preparations or something like that. Is Lorenz up?”

“He’s probably with Claude,” Byleth says. “Ignatz, will you find Lysithea? She’s probably studying her magic books in her room.”

He nods and disappears, and Byleth refuses to think that she will lose any of them today. She has her time magic, she should be able to keep them alive. Sothis had been clear about the magic’s limits, but Byelth is prepared to push those limits if necessary. Especially if—the very thought makes her chest feel too small for the ache it produces—especially if it’s Claude that falls.

The final meeting goes well once they’ve all gathered around the map table. There have been minor changes to their positioning and tactics based off of information that Manuela had received from letters from her opera company contacts. It hadn’t been out and out espionage, just letters between old friends, but no one in the Alliance army had been to Enbarr in the last five years so even the gossip about what areas of the city have been put under curfew or closed to the public is good intel: it means they have some idea of where Hubert has concentrated his efforts to fortify the capital.

With those alterations made and agreed upon, Claude dismisses them all. Byleth, however, decides to linger as he packs up the maps and prepares to join his battalion at the head of the army.

“You have to take your own advice about tactical retreats. Don’t get pinned down where we can’t help you,” she says, trying to sound calm. Yet something of her concern must leak into her voice because he turns to face her.

“Worried about me, Teach?” he asks, far too casually for the grim look in his eyes.

“You’re a lot more prone to heroics now than you were when we met,” she replies. He smiles at that, then it fades away as he no doubt remembers Dimitri and Edelgard as they had been that night: young and ambitious and brave but not the killers they’d become. Had he already been a killer? He’s already hinted that there had been attempts on his life in Almyra and he certainly hadn’t flinched when they’d hunted down bandits in Zanado.

“There’s no need to worry, my friend. I don’t have a death wish,” he says.

“Hubert will be after me personally. I can handle him, so don’t run to my rescue.” She shifts her weight a little, avoids his keen gaze, and tries to decide what to say to him in these last quiet moments before the battle. There’s so much she wants to convey, but she’d never learned how. It leaves her feeling helpless now, when she needs to find the words the most. “Khalid…”

Her eyes lift to his at last, and of course he’s already looking at her. He seems to sense her distress and something darkens in his gaze. Her blood rushes as his expression settles into something steely and determined, and then he’s moving toward her. He catches her elbow and gives one decisive pull, and her body collides with his as his other hand cups the back of her head. He dips down as she sucks in a startled breath, and then his lips are on hers and her arms are around his neck and no other kiss she’s ever had could have prepared her for this. His fingers tangle into her hair as she pushes forward and onto her toes to kiss him deeper and he helps, dragging her closer with the arm that’s warm around her waist. They part for a breath, dive into each other again, and then he breaks away from her for real. They’re both panting a little, and she can feel his racing heart against her chest. His eyes are stormy and his pupils blown as he catches his breath, and then—as if he can’t help it—he dips in for another heated kiss; a quick one this time that sends fresh jolts of desire all the way down to her toes.

“Stay alive,” he tells her, his voice low and rough. His hands slide from her back and hair to her upper arms as she drops them from his body, and he gives her a gentle squeeze as he says it. “You have to stay alive.”

“You too.” Byleth hasn’t sounded so hoarse since she’d had a fever as a kid. “We’ve come this far, you have to see it through to the end.”

He nods, leans in to press one more kiss to the corner of her lips, and then strides out of the inn as if nothing has changed. Her fingers come up to her mouth as she watches him go, feeling how swollen her lips are. Then she takes a breath, finds her center and follows him out into the dawn. It’s time to finish this.

* * *

She doesn’t think of the kiss during the fight. Doesn’t even think of it immediately after the fight. There’s too much to do and too much to process. But by the time Byleth lays down to rest, though Edelgard’s death and Rhea’s survival are heavy on her shoulders, the kiss has taken up residency in her thoughts again. It lingers there, chasing sleep away with the questions it brings with it: what did it mean? What happens now? Had he only kissed her because he was afraid one or both of them would die before the day was out?

She sighs and rolls over. Punches the pillow. Gets up and paces her borrowed room in the Imperial palace. Lays down again.

Sleep doesn’t creep in for a long time, then it takes her all at once. But the kiss is still there, teasing her from her subconscious, and she dreams of it more than once that night.

* * *

Claude doesn’t avoid her but he isn’t as  _ present _ as he always was before. Their allies are busy preparing for the arrival of Nemesis and the Ten Elites, all reacting with the same darting eyes and tense shoulders every time someone brings up how quickly Holst had been decimated by the Fell King. Before Enbarr, Byleth might have expected to spend most of her day in Claude’s presence. Now his business constantly takes him to other areas of the monastery. He’s casual about it, doesn’t make a big show out of running away or avoiding her. But of course he is, and Byleth isn’t the only one to notice.

“Did you guys fight?” Hilda asks, leaning forward into Byleth’s space as she digs out a clump of weeds from the vegetable patch in the greenhouse. The pink haired girl is very careful not to get dirty, but she seems determined to find out what’s gone wrong between the Alliance’s golden duo.

“Of course we didn’t fight,” Byleth murmurs. She doesn’t want to have this conversation, not least because she doesn’t know  _ how  _ to have it. She’s never wanted anyone the way she wants Claude. She wants  _ everything  _ with him. She almost feels fated to be by his side. But that feels too big and too personal to tell Hilda, especially when she can barely admit it to herself.

“Well, when he thinks nobody can see him, Claude looks like someone kicked his puppy. And when people  _ are  _ looking, he’s way too cheerful. He tries not to talk about you, which means he ends up talking about nothing  _ but _ you. So it’s pretty obvious that something’s wrong with him.” Hilda tilts her head and leans even further into Byleth’s sightline. “But you’re a little harder to read, Professor.”

“I’m fine.” Then, at Hilda’s skeptical look, she adds, “Truly, I’m fine. I’m sure Claude is just stressed about Nemesis.”

There’s a pause and Byleth turns back to her gardening. They need as much food as they can get out of this little greenhouse, and she’s never had the talent with growing things that Ashe, Marianne and Dedue have.

“Are you in love with him, Professor?”

Her head snaps up and whips around to Hilda. Claude’s kiss immediately springs to mind, playing vividly in her imagination as Hilda’s question sinks in. The young woman seems innocent enough, her expression betraying only a casual interest, but there’s something flinty in her eyes that warns Byleth to proceed with caution.

“I—That’s—”

“It’s not like he’ll ever admit it, but I think he’s in love with you. So that makes it my duty to give you the best friend talk.”

“The—” Byleth’s brain is stuck on the fact that Claude is potentially in love with her. The shock of that leaves her struggling to comprehend basic words. “The what?”

“The best friend talk.” Hilda’s smiling now, like it’s a joke...but she is a little serious, Byleth can tell. “The one where I tell you that if you hurt him, I’m obligated to come after you with Freikugel. And if you were anyone else, that would probably result in serious injury for them, but since it’s  _ you,  _ I’d be the one getting hurt so...please don’t force me to defend my friend’s honor.”

“I wouldn’t hurt you. Or him,” she adds, finally abandoning her spade. She sits back on her heels and rubs a hand over her face, realizing too late that she’s probably left streaks of dirt down her cheeks. Hilda wrinkles her nose—she hates to get messy—but then kind of smiles.

“You’re even cute when you’re covered in mud. No wonder he’s such a goner. Well, my duty here is done. Bye, Professor! See you at supper!”

With a wave and a swirl of pink and black skirts, Hilda is gone and Byleth is left to decide whether the other woman was stirring the pot from boredom, or if there’s something to her assertion that Claude is in love with her.

* * *

She can practically feel his gaze on her skin, he’s staring at her so hard. Byleth huffs an internal sigh and tries to ignore it, but knowing he’s watching her makes her feel like pressure is building up inside of her to the bursting point. She can’t fight Nemesis like this, she can barely focus on finishing her meal with Marianne and Ignatz. Both of them keep shooting concerned glances her way, and she realizes that it’s because she’s gripped her fork hard enough to have bent the metal. She forces herself to relax, then she lifts her head and meets Claude’s eyes.

He flushes slightly but gives her a wry smile before turning away, nodding absently at something Lorenz is lecturing him about. The pressure in Byleth’s chest eases but the whole situation leaves her without much of an appetite, so she slides her plate past Ignatz to Raphael, who is delighted to have another portion.

_ My friend,  _ he calls her. Well, used to call her. They haven’t really talked since Enbarr. She admits to herself now that the kiss has changed things, made their friendship untenable. Maybe he regrets it.  _ She  _ doesn’t. In fact, she spends far too much time wanting to kiss him again. An undead king is coming to kill her and that consumes most of her thoughts, but that longing for Claude still sneaks in and distracts her. Some Ashen Demon she is.

She makes it back to her chamber without interruption, a rare occurrence that she’s grateful for today. Perhaps she’ll reread the legends about Nemesis, look for some sort of chink in his armor. The problem with legends is that they’re so vague. She could do with less, “the wicked shall be punished,” and more, “the Fell King relies too much on his strength so speed and cunning could overwhelm him.” Yet she hauls out the appropriate book anyway, hoping that she’s missed something from her earlier perusal.

The knock comes a few moments later, just as she’s getting to “the wicked shall be punished,” part of the story. She shuts the tome and rises from the desk. She’s not in the mood for a chat with her former students, but she isn’t in the mood for ponderous religious stories either so she chooses the lesser evil and opens the door.

Claude is on the other side. The sight of him causes her to freeze as she stares at him with slightly widened eyes. He’s staring back at her, and his expression is a curious one: it’s like he was anticipating his own witty greeting, but forgot what he was going to say as soon as she opened the door. He gathers himself quickly though, straightening up and plastering a smile on his face that’s verging on self-deprecating, as if he’s aware he’d just been caught looking slightly foolish.

“Lady Rhea is well enough to speak with us,” he tells her.

Ah. So they’re still not going to address this new shift in their relationship. He sees her vague discomfort and more acute uneasiness and adds, “She’s in pretty bad shape, Teach. I don’t know now many opportunities like this we’ll get, and if she owes anyone some answers, it’s you.”

It’s on the tip of her tongue to remind him that Rhea isn’t the only one who owes her answers...but she lets it go for now. There are other priorities to see to first.

“Lead the way,” she says to him. His eyes soften for a moment as he looks down at her.

“Whatever we find out about you and your past, it won’t matter. It won’t change who you are to me,” he tells her.

_ I don’t know who I am to you, _ she thinks, but she nods. “I’m grateful. I hope she can tell us about Nemesis too.”

“You and me both, my friend,” he agrees. “Let’s go find out, shall we?”

* * *

The goddess-heart inside of her doesn’t beat, so when she faces Nemesis in the dregs of a poisonous lake, it doesn’t pound. She feels her anxiety in other ways though: the rushing of the blood through her limbs, the way her chest tightened around each breath. And she feels her determination too, in the grip she’s got around the Sword of the Creator. She’s aware of Claude behind her, Failnaught glowing like fire in his hands.

He’s always with her. But when this fight is over and the war is truly won, will that still be true? His eyes stray to the eastern horizon more often now…will he disappear beyond it? Would he mind if she followed?

No, she can’t think about that now. She has to focus. Nemesis is too dangerous a foe for her to concentrate on anything but survival.

The shape of her future will have to remain a mystery, because now the fight begins.

* * *

The victory feast lasts through the night, but Byleth has had her fill of merriment after just a few hours. She leaves her friends to it and escapes into the night air, breathing deeply. It’s a relief to be out here in the quiet.

But she’s not alone. Claude had slipped out behind her and is now lingering on the edge of the courtyard, cloaked in shadows. He isn’t making a huge effort to be stealthy, but there is some hesitation she can see. Then he seems to shake it off and he steps toward her.

“I should have remembered,” he says. “You don’t like parties much, do you?”

She shrugs and then shakes her head. “It’s fine for a while, but we’ve got work to do in the morning and I don’t want a hangover.”

“That’s downright responsible of you, Teach,” he replies with a smirk. “I guess I should have expected that from a former professor.”

Byleth hits him with the full force of her pointed stare. “Do  _ you  _ want to sit through a bunch of meetings with Seteth about rebuilding the church and rewriting holy scripture with a headache and a queasy stomach?”

“Not at all,” he laughs. “Which is why  _ I’ll _ be working with groups from every corner of Fódlan, trying to stitch this country back together.”

She nods. “I’m sure they’ll all be hoping you’ll divvy out the spoils with a generous hand.”

He looks a little surprised, then he shakes his head. “The spoils won’t be mine to give away. But I can see now it’s time we had a chat. Meet me at the Goddess Tower tomorrow? I’m afraid I’m a little too tipsy to have this talk tonight.”

He doesn’t  _ look _ tipsy, but Byleth agrees. He smiles at her and she thinks,  _ Goddess, he’s handsome in the moonlight. _ Then he lifts her hand to his lips and kisses it, throwing in a bit of a courtly flourish at the end just to make her smile back at him. It works, and his face lights up even more.

“Have sweet dreams, my friend. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

* * *

Their conversation at the Goddess Tower leaves her reeling. The first shock is the crown: she’s a mercenary turned professor and in no way qualified to lead a nation, but he seems completely convinced at she will excel at the task. Then there’s the shock of him leaving. She had suspected for a while that he meant to leave Fódlan when the war was over, but this is a much faster departure than she’d anticipated. She doesn’t feel ready to shoulder the burden of queenship without him there to guide her. She thinks he’d make a far more natural king. His leadership during the war leaves her with little doubt that he could manage Fódlan in times of peace. But she doesn’t have time to dwell on  _ that,  _ either, because next he touches on a subject much closer to her heart.

“I love you,” he tells her, holding out a ring. His eyes are so bright and earnest they almost seem to glow, “with everything I am.”

After months of wanting and hoping and fearing that her feelings were one-sided, this simple confession takes her breath away. She wants to cry, actually feels the tears welling up in her eyes, and he reaches for her and pulls her into his arms, burying his face in her hair as she presses even closer into him.

He’ll come back for her. He promises, and she trusts him to keep that promise. A little more waiting, a little more yearning, and then he’ll truly be hers.

And he’s worth waiting for. That, she’s always known.

* * *

The Agarthans have come to Derdriu for their revenge, bringing the last and most desperate of the Imperial army with them. And Byleth has underestimated them. Without Claude and his contingencies for contingencies, she has made a tactical error, one that may cost them their new nation. It will certainly cost her her life. She has no more time magic: she’s spent it all reclaiming her friends and allies from death. Now, she is being slowly overwhelmed by these strange men and their stranger weapons.

She staggers as a bolt of energy hits her. Falls when another strikes before she can take a breath.  _ I’m sorry, Khalid. I tried to wait for you. I truly did. _

Then there’s a ferocious cry from above, drawing her eyes to the sky. The last thing she sees before she passes out is a storm of wyverns descending on the battlefield from behind the enemy lines.

* * *

Byleth wakes to her maids—she is a queen so she has maids now, which she’s still getting used to—gossiping about the news that Fódlan’s latest savior is none other than the king of Almyra. She has no doubt this is a favor she owes to Claude, and she’s sure there’s an amusing story to go with it. But it looks like she’ll have to find him first.

She groans as she gets to her feet and her maids rush to help her (“Your Majesty, you shouldn’t be on your feet yet!” and, “Lady Manuela would be very cross with you!” are protests she ignores). She’s been in her sickbed for too long, and while she generally trusts Lorenz and Seteth to handle business in her absence, she’s guessing that it’s a breach of royal protocol to leave a king waiting to be formally welcomed to the realm. Besides, Claude might be wherever this king is at, and she’s impatient to be reunited with him.

She opens the door to her apartments, intent on making her way down to the audience chamber where she can find out what’s happening, but she’s immediately waylaid by Leonie.

“Professor! I mean—Your Majesty, you’re awake.”

“Byleth, just Byleth,” she says, waving off the mercenary’s concern. “Titles are for strangers.”

“Are you sure you should be up? Claude will skin me alive if—”

“I’m fine,” Byleth interrupts, “but I’d better get started on catching up. How long have I been out?”

“Two days, but most of that was induced by white magic. Manuela said you needed the sleep.”

That was probably true. “Is Claude here?”

Leonie hesitates. “Well, yeah, but—I should probably let him explain, it’s really been a huge shock…” She trails off and shakes her head. “This way,” she says, and leads Byleth down the hallway to a set of apartments that faces the sea. Byleth knows she should probably greet the king first, but she ignores duty in favor of her heart. Seteth will make the appropriate apologies for her oversight, she’s sure. Meanwhile, her mouth starts to go dry as Leonie stops outside a set of double doors and motions for her to go inside.

Once the doors are open, six huge Almyran guards turn to her, and Byleth realizes that Leonie has brought her to greet the king after all. She feels a flash of disappointment that she quickly squashes; after all, Claude may be attending the king in the inner apartments.

One of the guards signals a page boy and he opens the door to the next chamber and announces the arrival of the queen of Fódlan. Too late, Byleth thinks she probably should have brought some sort of gift.  She’ll have to go empty handed for now however, as the page boy nods to indicate she should continue.

She’s barely through the door when warm, strong arms envelop her. Her first instinct is to struggle even in her weakened state, but a familiar scent hits her at the same that thought does, and her arms come up to return Claude’s embrace almost before she consciously realizes that’s who it is.

“I was just coming back to your rooms,” he says in a muffled voice. His face is buried in her neck and there’s a tremor in his arms. “You were unconscious when I found you and for a second I thought—”

“I’m okay,” she whispers to him, and his arms tighten around her waist. “You’re here now, everything is going to be okay.”

“I thought I was going to make some big, romantic entrance, but I was almost too late.” He pulls back enough to look into her eyes. He tries to joke a little, to lighten the mood, by adding, “It seems I can’t leave you alone without courting disaster, so I guess I’ll just have to stay by your side.”

She smiles at him. “I won’t argue with that.”

“Good, because I’ve already asked Hilda and my mother to start planning the wedding.”

Her heart squeezes. “We’d better loop Seteth and Lorenz in on it too, or I’ll never hear the end of how I’m failing to uphold my royal dignity.”

“Excellent point,” he agrees. “And there will be plenty of red tape to cut through, what with two sets of royal protocol to consider.”

“I’d almost forgotten you’ve got ties to the royal family,” Byleth says. He wrinkles his nose at her.

“Actually, we should talk about that. I’ve got a confession to make,” he begins, but Byleth feels her eyes go wide as the pieces start to fall into place.

“ _ You?  _ You’re the king of Almyra?” she asks, stunned.

“Freshly minted, but yes.” His eyes sparkle at her. “Do you think you can forgive me for not telling you? When I left, I wasn’t sure I’d make it onto the throne. And then when I did receive the crown, the Agarthans were already on the move and I had to race back here.”

“I...should probably be a little angry you didn’t tell me, but I vaguely remember you saying you made a promise to your parents not to talk about it,” Byleth says, and he nods. He steps back a little but keeps hold of her hands, running his thumbs over the backs of them.

“I know this changes things, so I should probably ask again. Byleth, will you ma—”

“Yes,” she says simply, and he laughs at her quick answer. His entire being seems to be infused with joy and she...she feels the same way.

“Good. This way I never have to leave your side again,” he says, and this time she kisses him; she tugs her hands free to lace into his hair and pull his lips down to hers, and he remembers to dismiss the attendants Byleth hasn’t even noticed just in the nick of time.

Later, they’re married under the stars on a royal barge in Derdriu’s famous bay, but Byleth savors this reunion the most. And silently she makes him the same promise: that it will be their last reunion, because they’ll  never be parted again.

It’s a vow they both manage to keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally done! This went on WAY longer than I thought but I hope you enjoyed the ride!
> 
> I always forget to mention, but you can find me on [Tumblr](https://lowritesthings.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/lsowrites) as well.

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't done yet, but I wanted to get something up at last. Hopefully the rest will follow soon. Thank you for reading!


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